Mars

by rheeb

Sometimes I wonder what this time in my life means. I am stuck on pause, and I’m pretty certain that there has to be a reason for it. Well, I’m hoping that there’s a reason for it.

I am empty.

In the past six months, I have done many things in excess–especially spending money. And I know, deep inside myself, that I am doing this to fill a void. If I weren’t so afraid of weight gain, I probably would have filled the void with food. But no, seriously, I find that when I leave the house, I can do whatever the hell I want to do, and it all leaves me completely and unequivocally empty. There is more to life than things, and I am missing the most fundamental of things–love. And I’m not talking about getting love from another person. No, I am talking about self-love. Self-worth. Self-esteem. Self-pride. Even typing all of that out makes me feel a bit shaky, because saying anything with the word “self” in it, the way I grew up, usually equates being self-centered which equates sin. And hell, that may have something to do with my lack of it. I lack the most fundamental thing–value in my own eyes. And it is poisoning my entire life. Ooo, that was strangely honest. Did you feel the chill just go by? Whew, but yes, that is the issue that I could explain in the same way I can explain calculus. I can’t.

I want to run away from myself.

And the thing is, there is no actual way to do that. I can leave my life, jump in my car, and drive until I can’t drive anymore, but I will still be there, and this thing deep within me–this pain that resembles daggers constantly probing my heart at a rhythmic pace–would still be there. And what will I do then? And every once in a while, I really ponder smoking marijuana or something–something to help me escape myself–but then eventually, the high will fade away, and like a reflection, I will still be here, being me, being this, feeling this thing within me that cuts so deeply that no stitch could fix it. I would still be here, desperately trying to escape myself–running at full speed and making no progress. Rocking away all night and going absolutely nowhere.

Money really doesn’t matter.

When I worked at PFCM, I saved nearly every dime I made (which wasn’t much, but it was a hellofalot more than I’d ever made before). I made sure to pay off my car, be completely out of debt, and save money as though my life depended on it. When they fired me, I had nearly $10,000, but I still felt deeply poor. My goal was to drive away, going and going all night for months on end, seeing everything I could ever want to see. I wanted to meet people from all different walks of life–learn how others live. I am intensely non-judgmental. I can make friends with just about anyone unless they are narcissistic. So this plan was my lifeblood the whole time I worked in the bowels of hell. But then, when I got fired, something snapped in my head. I’m so serious. I heard a snap, and I have not really breathed since. I don’t know if the sound I heard was twenty-two years of my life exploding or if it was something more. I just know that something fundamental snapped, and I have been a very different person since.

I had to finally face myself without distractions.

And here we are, nearly six months after everything went crazy, and I am constantly staring at myself. Faced. I feel like I’m assaulting myself constantly. I want to file a restraining order. Have you ever hated someone so much that being in their presence makes you feel like you’re choking? That is how I feel all the time. I hate myself at the deepest level. I have never been able to be…anything. Well, anything that I could value. I have “accomplished” many things. I was salutatorian in high school, graduated magna cum laude, got inducted into Phi Beta Kappa, and won a very prestigious writing award (along with $2,500) at college graduation. But it all means absolutely nothing to me. It’s almost like all that stuff happened to someone else.

Sometimes, I feel like someone’s standing on my chest.

I see myself driving so far that I end up in some desert in the West. Alone. And I just scream and scream–and heave–and scream more until my voice cracks and I begin to cry tears of blood.

Sometimes I feel like I’m mourning what will never be. Or what had never been. Like I have to face what never happened. Like I have to come back down to earth with eyes open and move forward without those dreams.